| Author: Sasaki Ichiro | Original Source: Syosetu |
| Translator: Mab | English Source: Re:Library |
| Editor(s): Silva | |
Author’s Note:
The characters in this interlude haven’t played a part in the main storyline.
Translator’s Note:
Here’s another reminder that Cestlavie reads /ˌseɪ lə ˈviː/
The boy was five years old. His unkempt black hair, unevenly cut, framed his face. However, his bright and curious hazel eyes, combined with his innate vivacity, gave him an untarnished innocence and an overflow of vitality.
It was early summer, and in this town, situated in a highland vacation area, a gentle breeze always seemed to grace the streets.
Surrounded by the muggy scent of deep greenery and the chorus of cicadas, the boy ran uphill, tightly gripping a practice wand that he had always wanted. He was about to practice magic on the empty hilltop.
However, someone was already there. A beautiful girl, dressed in white lace with pink princess sleeves, looking like an angel.
The girl seemed about his age, maybe slightly younger. Her speech sounded a bit childish, but her mannerisms and clothing suggested she was a noble’s daughter. Perhaps she was one of the aristocratic children who came to the summer villa. So maybe she wasn’t childish, just sheltered.
The two of them took turns holding the practice wand, playing, and attempting magic exercises. The boy had some basic instructions from his parents, allowing him to perform simple magic. However, the girl, clearly an amateur, struggled to even create a slight breeze. In the end, she pouted with teary eyes.
Her reaction was so adorable and endearing that the boy couldn’t resist poking her puffed, rosy cheeks. In response, the girl hit him with her small balled fist repeatedly.
While it didn’t hurt at all, the boy pretended to wince in pain, shocking the girl to the point of crying in guilt. Panicked, the boy quickly assured her that he was just joking, earning him a kick with her toes, which actually hurt.1
When the girl saw the boy hop around on one leg in pain, she burst into laughter. Soon, they both found themselves laughing together.
Evening came, and it was time for them to head back home. They reached a fork in the road where their paths led in opposite directions. This was where they had to part ways. Only then did the boy realize he hadn’t asked the girl’s name. Too shy to ask, he made a pinky promise to her that they would meet again tomorrow and use magic together.
At dinner, the boy told his parents, the caretaker of the small church and a deacon, about the girl who looked like an angel or maybe a princess. His parents immediately suggested that she must be the daughter of Lord ***. Seeing the troubled look on his parents’ faces as they expressed concern about the girl sneaking away from the villa alone, the boy felt a creeping sense of unease.
His parents then looked him in the eyes and spoke to him, explaining that she was of a different social class, that he must be careful not to be rude to her, and that he should never approach her again without a good reason.
He nodded at their words, but he couldn’t accept them. So, he went to the top of the hill the next day.
Yet, the girl didn’t come. It must have been because his father said something to her family that prevented her from coming.
The following year, the boy entered the seminary as a scholarship student. He dedicated his life to studying hard, but he always returned to his parents’ house every summer vacation, just to climb the hill where he made his promise.
And seven years then passed.
♢♦♢♦♢
“Cestlavie — Father Cestlavie Lowe! Bishop Aaron requests your immediate presence.”
The high-handed voice of the middle-aged deacon boomed through the crowded dining hall. The youthful crowd, mostly deacons or lower-ranking members, momentarily fell silent, their gazes slowly shifting towards a particular bench in the cheap diner.
“…”
There, a scruffy black-haired young man, who was indifferently enjoying his meal of steamed potatoes, beans, cabbage, a small amount of meat in plain salted water, and a generous portion of tough bread, raised his head reluctantly under the weight of the surrounding glances.
In terms of appearance, he would probably be rated six out of ten, and that was being generous. He could look more decent if he groomed himself properly, put on a serious expression, and held the holy scripture in his hand. In reality, however, he always looked dull with an air of poverty around him… Without the red stole signifying his priesthood, he appeared more like a country bumpkin trying to make it in the city, or at best, a servant working for a church in some remote region2 .
The middle-aged deacon, who had singled him out in the crowded cafeteria and had already gathered information about him, frowned slightly upon noticing the disparity between the image he had based on the information and the actual person. After assessing the boy and checking the color of his somewhat worn-out stole, he opened his mouth unhappily.
“Do you not hear me, Father Cestlavie?! Report to Bishop Aaron immediately!” commanded the deacon heedlessly from the entrance of the diner.
In terms of rank, as a priest, Cestlavie Lowe technically held a higher rank than the deacon. However, the deacon, carrying the direct authority of a bishop and being much older and more cleanly dressed than Cestlavie, believed he had the leverage over the young man. The word ‘insolent’ would have fitted him better than the clothes he was wearing.
The other clergymen, wanting to avoid trouble, continued their meals while pretending not to hear, but they couldn’t help sneaking sideways glances at the commotion.
Although they, too, came from modest backgrounds, they harbored a deep sense of resentment against the overbearing middle-aged deacon who was throwing his weight around… Yet, they couldn’t openly display their emotions and had to reluctantly accept the disruption to their otherwise peaceful mealtime.
“What’s wrong, Father Cestlavie?! On your feet, now!”
On the other hand, the much younger Priest Cestlavie continued to savor his meal in his usual carefree manner.
Annoyed by the priest’s attitude, the deacon forced his way into the crowded dining hall, showing no concern for the inconvenience he caused to the tightly packed young clergymen. He even kicked the backs of chairs as he pushed through, making his way to where Cestlavie was sitting.
“Enough with your meal already! Bishop Aaron is summoning you!”
As the incessant shouting of the middle-aged deacon became impossible to ignore, Cestlavie opened his mouth as he stirred the soup with his spoon, looking thoroughly annoyed.
“I have three whole pieces of meat in my soup today. I will savor them last, enjoy my meal till its end, and only then will I go.”
“Huh…?”
Upon hearing the nonchalant answer, the middle-aged deacon’s face showed bewilderment. He looked at Cestlavie, unable to believe his own ears. And when he saw that Cestlavie continued to eat his soup without any care, the deacon’s expression changed from bafflement to anger.
“—FATHER CESTLAVIE!!!”
“Chapter 24, Verse 6 of the Holy Scripture states, ‘Happiness and Hope are always close at hand; under the bright light, with a warm meal, in moments of relaxation.’ Such are the words of Her Holiness, Saintess Snow. We should be grateful for our daily sustenance and savor the happiness of safely passing through this day. Isn’t that also part of our duties as clergymen, Brother?”
Cestlavie recited the scripture between sips, glancing sideways at the fuming deacon. The clergymen around him chimed in, jeering with “Exactly!” and “Don’t interrupt a holy duty!”
